Promise Me

Promise Me

By Monica Alexander

Copyright 2016 by Monica Alexander

ISBN: 978-1-3119-4495-5

Cover Image: (c) Serge Bertasius Photography / www.shutterstock.com Stock Photography

Smashwords Edition

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or personals, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All Rights Reserved

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Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

About the Author

Playlist

Prologue

Kate

8 Years Earlier

The tapping on my window came later than I’d expected it. Ever since I’d heard the front door slam next door and the yelling start, I’d been sitting up in bed, my heart pounding and my eyes glued to the window. I’d pulled my knees up to my chest, and I waited for him, knowing it was only a matter of time before his knuckles rapped softly but earnestly against the pane of the only window in my room.

Of course fear lived in the back of my mind that there would be a night he wouldn’t come to me. He was still small, and fighting back wasn’t an option, but Johnny talked too often about what it would be like when he was older, when he was stronger, and when he could hold his own. With determination in his hazel eyes, he told me that one day he’d make sure his father never hit his mother again.

That knowledge terrified me. His father was huge – an ex-Marine who worked out daily and could level a grown man with one blow. I’d seen it, and I knew that even if Johnny grew six inches, filled out and started training, he’d barely stand a chance. John Evans was terrifying, especially when he’d been drinking – which was most nights.

He had what Johnny called PTSD, and he’d had it since he’d gotten back from the war six years earlier. For a while he’d been really depressed, but then he’d started to get angry. That was when the yelling had started. It had been happening for years, and most nights I could hear clearly what was going on in their trailer next door, the sounds echoing throughout my room and making me scrunch further under the covers as I listened to Johnny’s father yelling and his mother trying to reason with him night after night.

But Mr. Evans’s voice was booming, and he never listened to reason. He just raged about their trailer, throwing things and screaming obscenities that I was probably far too young to hear. It was terrifying, but I knew he’d never come after me. I was more scared for my friend, unable to imagine how he must be feeling as his father ranted and cursed and shook the thin walls of their trailer, right outside of his bedroom.

The worst part was when I’d hear Mr. Evans yelling at Johnny. It was like having the best seat in the house to the worst movie, and it was made ten times more awful by the fact that I couldn’t see what was happening. I could only hear the screaming and the cursing and the insults flying around as I held my breath and prayed that he wouldn’t hurt my friend.

I knew Johnny never invited in his father’s rage. I knew he cowered in fear and probably said the same prayers I did that his father wouldn’t turn the knob on his bedroom door and fill up the doorframe of the small room, but I also knew it was inevitable that it was going to happen. Those were the nights I barely slept a wink, and if I did fall asleep, it was because I’d cried myself there as fear had gripped me.

I had no idea what Mr. Evans was capable of, and his voice alone frightened me to my core. I’d heard him knock over furniture, I’d heard him put his fist through a wall, and I’d heard him tear Johnny’s room apart. I didn’t think he’d ever hit Johnny, but simply hearing the agony in my friend’s voice as his father berated him and destroyed what few possessions he had was sometimes worse.

I was grateful that most nights Johnny’s father left him alone, but at least once a week he’d lash out at his only son, and fear would clutch me until I heard him leave Johnny’s room. Then I’d cry until I had no more tears left, because all I wanted to do was help my friend, but I knew there was nothing I could do.

For a long time Johnny didn’t know that I knew what was going on at his house late at night. He never talked about it, so if I hadn’t heard it for myself, I might never have known. He was always sunny and happy, just normal Johnny, when I’d meet him to walk to the bus stop each morning. It broke my heart to know what he was going through and to not be able to say anything, but he was my best friend, and I knew if he wanted me to know what was going on with his dad, he would have told me.

So for a long time, I let it go, telling myself that although the yelling and the breaking of things was terrifying, it wasn’t that bad. It only happened at night, and it only lasted for a little while. But then came the night when I heard what I’d thought was flesh striking flesh. Silence followed for a few seconds, as I held my breath, gripped by fear, and then I heard Johnny’s mother start to cry. A second later, Johnny was out of his room, asking his father what he’d done.

His father had slurred that he hadn’t done anything, but I knew differently, and so did Johnny. I heard him go to his mother, and then I heard him ask his father through his tears what had happened. His father had sneered that his mother had fallen, but we both knew he was lying through his teeth.

I hate you! Johnny had seethed at him, and his father had just laughed.

I hate you too, boy – always have, he said to him, and then I’d heard the front door of their trailer open and close.

His father’s truck engine broke through the silent night air, and then he was gone. Only then did I take my first full breath in several minutes, but I also felt the overwhelming urge to throw up. I couldn’t believe what I’d just witnessed, and I was still wrapping my head around it. I couldn’t hear anything from Johnny’s trailer, but I imagined he was comforting his mother. Hatred boiled deep within me as silent tears spilled down my cheeks.

My mother wasn’t home. She was out, and my sister Sara was asleep in the next room. Sara could sleep through most anything, but hearing me cry would wake her up, and I had no idea how I’d explain my tears to her. I wasn’t going to tell her what I’d just heard. There was no way I’d ever scar her with something so terrible. I felt like it was my job to protect her, to shelter her, and to keep her life as happy as possible. I was just glad she’d never woken up and heard Mr. Evans ranting and cursing.

After that night, I started to notice more and more frequently that Johnny’s mother had bruises on her arms and legs, and sometimes she even had them on her face. I remembered the first time I’d seen her with a black eye. Sara and I had gone by Johnny’s trailer to meet him to walk to the bus stop, like we’d done every day since he and I had started kindergarten. His mother had been ushering him out the door. His eyes were red-rimmed, as if he’d been crying, and fear had instantly filled me. I’d heard his parents’ fight from the night before, and it had sounded especially brutal.

I told Sara, who was two years younger than us, to go ahead to the bus stop and we’d be there shortly. For once she didn’t question my direction and accuse me of bossing her around, and I wondered if she could tell something wasn’t right. She was perceptive like that, even at eight years old.

Once she was out of earshot, I looked at Johnny in confusion and asked him what was wrong, even though I knew. He refused to tell me. His mom had called after him to have a good day at school, and we’d both looked back at her. It was then that I’d noticed her eye. I gasped in surprise right as Johnny let out a strained sniffle. I looked over at him just as he forced a smile on his face and waved to his mother.

When I asked him what had happened to her eye, wondering if he’d tell me the truth, he’d said she’d fallen down, had tripped over a rock while hanging the laundry on the clothesline the day before. I’d looked back to see that the clothesline he’d referred to was empty. It was late fall, and because I did the laundry at home, I knew it took at least two days for clothes to dry in the cold air, but I didn’t say anything to Johnny. I knew then that he was living under the assumption that I had no idea what went on at his house late at night, and it was obvious that he didn’t want me to know.

I wanted to tell him that I knew everything, that I’d heard it all, night after night, and I was so afraid for him. I wanted to tell him that he wasn’t alone, that he could talk to me, and we could figure out what to do together. But I didn’t say anything. Even at ten years old, I knew I shouldn’t pry – not about that.

Maybe it was the harsh life we both lived, or maybe it was the look in his eyes, but I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t say a word, and from that day forward, I didn’t question any of the fresh bruises that would appear on his mother’s skin from time to time – even the one time when I clearly saw the two handprint marks around her neck.

Maybe I should have said something to my mother, but every time I thought about it, I changed my mind. She worked a lot, and she was trying to raise my sister and me on her own. She had enough to worry about. Besides, it wasn’t like she could stop Mr. Evans if he was hurting Mrs. Evans.

I guess I could have told our guidance counselor, Mrs. Vine, but I was afraid of what would happen if I did that. What if she got other people involved, they investigated the situation, and Johnny got taken away?

That had happened to my friend Kristin the year before. She and her mom were living in their car, and when our teacher, Mr. Kent, found out that Kristin’s mom would leave her alone at night to go to work the streets, he told some people, and before long Kristin was taken away by a social worker. From what I’d heard she was living in a crappy foster home with six other kids.

I couldn’t let that happen to Johnny. He loved his mother, and it would break his heart to be taken away from her. I knew how protective he was of her. Even if he’d never told me, I’d seen it in his eyes, and I’d heard it late at night when he comforted her after his father had passed out or had gone back to the bar. Johnny would never leave his mom. If he did, who would keep her safe from his father’s wrath?

So for years I kept quiet and tried to ignore the ache in my chest I felt whenever I’d hear arguing from the Evans’s trailer that sat ten feet from ours. And each day I’d pretend like everything was normal when I saw Johnny, because I knew he didn’t want to talk about the nightmare he was living. I prayed every night that his father wouldn’t decide to hurt him, but I also knew that was my breaking point. If his father started hitting him, I was telling someone about it. I wouldn’t let my friend get hurt. I couldn’t do that.

I cared about Johnny so much – probably more than I should have at such a young age – but from the day we’d met, it was like we had a bond between us that ran deeper than a normal childhood friendship. We were both poor as dirt, living in a shitty place, wearing ratty clothes, and we were both trying to survive and make the best of our situations. Life wasn’t easy, and it sucked a lot, but it was a little better than it could have been because we had each other.

And aside from what was going on with his father, we told each other everything. We talked about life and our dreams and what we’d do if we ever had money – which felt like a ridiculous notion, but it was still a fun game. We spent every day together, and we were as close as could be, which was why it killed me to know that he was going through something so terrible. But having to keep quiet about it for so long, because he wouldn’t tell me, was worse. I knew he had his reasons, but I also knew that if he talked to me about what he was feeling, I could share his burden. That’s what we did for each other.

It was almost a year after the first time his father had hit his mother that Johnny finally told me what was going on. He knocked on my window, crawled into my room, and then he just stood there across from me as we listened to the sounds of his parents fighting next door. Realization dawned on his face, and he met my gaze with pain in his eyes.

You’ve known all along, haven’t you?

I hesitated before nodding, because there wasn’t really any point in lying. Yes.

It’s getting worse, he said around a sigh.

I know.

I want to talk to you about it, he said, and then he sat down on my bed and told me the awful things about his life that I already knew.

Hearing them from him was such a relief, because I’d felt helpless for too long. Now I could take away some of his pain. I could be there for him, which was what I’d wanted to do all along.

We talked for a long time that night, two eleven year-olds discussing things that were way beyond their years – or at least that should have been in any normal circumstance. But we didn’t live normal lives. I’d been taking care of my sister for as long as I could remember, since most days our mother was usually asleep when we left for school in the mornings, she was gone when we got home, and she usually didn’t come back until after we’d gone to bed. I made sure Sara got breakfast, lunch, and dinner, I helped her with her homework, and I tucked her in each night. I also cleaned the house, did the laundry, took out the garbage, and I grocery shopped, walking the half mile to the store and back at least once a week.

It was an odd way to grow up, because even though I knew our mother loved us, she wasn’t around much. Our dad left when Sara was a baby, and I had no memories of him. My whole life it had been Mom, Sara and me, and we did what we could to survive.

Our mom worked a lot at the diner in town, and for a while I believed that was where she was when she wasn’t home. But as I got older, I started to realize that it wasn’t likely that she was working all day and all night. If she was, we’d probably have enough money to keep the heat on all winter, and at least few times a week, we’d eat meat that didn’t come out of a can.

But I never asked her about it, and she never told us where she went when she said she was going out. Once in a while she’d stay home with us, and we’d watch TV and make microwave popcorn, and it would feel like we were a real family, but most nights she was gone. I’d hear her come home in the middle of the night, because she tended to bang into things, or she’d shush whoever was with her. I never saw the people she brought home, which I figured was probably a good thing. I’d never really liked any of her friends all that much anyway.

They usually smelled like alcohol and cigarettes, and they never really talked to Sara or me. If our mom ever had friends over during the day, she’d usually tell us to go play outside so they could have grown-up time. Mostly we just went to the park with Johnny, and we’d wait until the sun was going down to go home. By that time our mom was either at work or napping. If she was home, we had to make sure we were really quiet, because she’d get upset if we woke her up.

She didn’t yell often, but she did if we woke her up or if we didn’t obey her. Once when we were playing tag near our house, Sara had to use the bathroom. I told her to go in the woods, because Mom had friends over, and I knew she didn’t want us in the house. Sara had started crying, because she hated to pee in the woods, so I told her to go inside but to be as quiet as possible. As soon as she’d stepped foot in the trailer, though, our mom had snapped at her, asking what she was doing. I guess she let her use the bathroom after that, but when Sara came back outside she had a lot of questions about what my mom and her friends had been doing.

I was only nine at the time, but I knew enough to know that the white powder she’d seen sprinkled on the coffee table was drugs. As was the ‘candy’ someone had offered her before our mother had smacked their hand away and laughed about Sara only being seven. She’d told her friend to at least wait until Sara was a teenager. Of course Sara had wanted to know why she couldn’t have the candy right then and had pouted for the rest of the day when I couldn’t give her a good reason.

After Sara had stomped away mad at me, Johnny had just looked at me. I’d met his gaze and had seen the sorrow in his eyes. He’d always hated that I bared the burden for my family, but I did it because no one else would. If I wanted a hot meal and a clean house, it was up to me to make it happen. I didn’t have another option. By that time I knew my mother partied a lot, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. All I could do was what was in my control. She was going to spend our money on what she wanted, but at least she left me the EBT card to buy groceries. If she hadn’t, I wasn’t sure what we would have done.

But it didn’t change the fact that Johnny felt sorry for me. It was funny, because I didn’t expel a lot of energy feeling sorry for myself. I mostly spent my time feeling sorry for him. My mother might have been neglectful and selfish, but I truly believed she loved us, and our lives were relatively stable.

Johnny’s life was volatile and uncertain most of the time. Not only did he have to contend with his father being an abusive jerk, his family never had any money. His father didn’t work. Johnny said he got money from the government from being injured in combat, but Johnny and his mother never saw any of that money. She worked as a housekeeper when she could find work, but her income was barely enough to put food on the table and keep them from losing their trailer.

The two of us lived desolate lives in a small town in rural Indiana where most people didn’t have much money, but we were the poorest of the poor. It was all we’d ever known, though, so we leaned on each other, and we survived however we could, which included Johnny climbing in my bedroom window for a solid year after he’d finally told me what was going on at home.

After that first night, we didn’t talk as much when he’d come over. But at least four nights a week, I’d hear his father come home, I’d hear the yelling, and then I’d hear the tapping of Johnny’s small knuckles on my window. I’d just started leaving it open after a while, and he’d climb in without an invitation. Then he’d crawl into bed with me. I’d take his hand in mine, I’d tell him it would be okay, and then we’d lay there awake until the yelling stopped.

Once and a while, Johnny would threaten to fight back against his father. He’d call him a bastard, and say that one day he’d make sure that he never hit his mother again. And although a part of me liked the idea of his father no longer hitting his mother, another part of me wished for a solution other than Johnny getting involved.

He was a sweet, kind, sandy haired boy with freckles and a bright smile. He wasn’t a fighter, but he loved his mother fiercely, and I knew he’d only stand by for so long and let his father hurt her. In my heart I knew he’d fight back before he was ready, and I was afraid of what that would mean.

I hate him, he growled when he crawled into bed next to me one night in late March when we were twelve years old.

I looked over to see his hazel eyes so fierce with determination that it scared me.

Johnny, he’s so awful, I said, squeezing his hand, having heard his father’s hateful words coming from next door and the sound of him striking Johnny’s mother.

I know he is, and he needs to be stopped.

I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. Johnny was barely five feet tall. He had spindly arms and gangly legs. He wasn’t going to stand a chance against his beast of a father, but I knew in his mind, none of that mattered. I could hear it in his voice

You can’t do it, I told him, shaking my head.

I have to do something, Kate, he said, using the nickname only he’d ever called me.

I’d told him my name was Kaitlyn when we’d first met years earlier, and he’d looked at me introspectively and said, ‘You don’t look like a Kaitlyn. I’m going to call you Kate.’ I knew I should have been offended, because how dare he say I didn’t look like my name. I’d been Kaitlyn since birth. It was my name. No one had ever called me anything else. But at the same time, I was so flattered that he wanted to call me something different than everyone else.

Even then I knew Johnny was special. I’d been drawn to him from the first time I’d seen him tossing a half-deflated basketball up into the air outside of his trailer when his family had first moved in. It wasn’t like I was attracted to him. We were five years old, but he intrigued me back then, so I’d just watched him until he noticed me. Then he asked me if I wanted to play catch. He said we couldn’t bounce the ball because it didn’t have enough air in it, and he didn’t have a pump, but we could throw it back and forth. I remembered smiling at him, because he was so sweet, and he reminded me of myself in the way that he didn’t seem upset about having a basketball that really couldn’t be used to play basketball. He was going to make the most of the toy he had. It was something I’d done my whole life with the few second-hand toys Sara and I owned. I took in his tattered shoes, worn looking clothes, and it was like I’d finally met someone I could relate to.

I didn’t have many friends, because no one wanted to be friends with the poor kid who had a hole in the toe of the only pair of sneakers she owned. But Johnny didn’t seem to care about my shoes, and that made me feel a little less worthless than I’d felt since I’d started going to school a few weeks earlier and realized how different I was than the other kids.

As we’d stood there tossing the ball back and forth, laughing when one of us would drop it, I felt whole for the first time in my life. I had a friend. I was having fun, and that made everything that had been bothering me sort of fade away.

After we’d been playing for an hour, Johnny had told me his name, and then he’d asked me what mine was. He’d called me Kate from that day forward, and for a long time he was the only person who called me that. Everyone else continued to call me Kaitlyn, but to him, I was Kate, and I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. It was our thing, and I loved that we had a thing. It made me feel like we truly were best friends.

I can’t let this go on, he told me as we heard his mother cry out, and he pulled me back to reality and away from simpler times before his dad went off the rails.

We cringed together, and I squeezed his hand as I heard Mrs. Evans tell her husband to stop. Johnny buried his face in my shoulder as his father launched into a stream of obscenities, and I involuntarily wrapped my arms around him, holding him close and doing what I could to take some of his pain away, even though I knew I never could. There was just too much of it.

I want to help her, he said, his words muffled. I just don’t know how. I feel like such a coward for coming over here, for running away, for leaving her alone to deal with him.

Johnny, you’re not a coward, I told him, having said the same thing a hundred times before.

He took so much blame onto himself when he had done nothing wrong. We both knew if he tried to stand up to his father, it would end badly. His father’s rage showed no limits, and there was no doubt he’d lash out at Johnny. It was a wonder he hadn’t already.

I wish she’d leave him, he said, his voice sounding hoarse. I hate that she stays, that she puts up with this, that she lets him hurt her. I hate it so much.

I know, I said, stroking his back.

Johnny! his father suddenly bellowed, and Johnny went stiff in my arms.

We heard more banging around the trailer as his father continued to yell.

No, John! his mother cried out. Leave him alone.

Where is he? Mr. Evans bellowed.

Oh shit. He knows I’m not home, Johnny said, his voice suddenly trembling.

I don’t know where he is, Johnny’s mother said honestly, and I could hear the fear in her voice.

Where the fuck are you, boy?! his father boomed. Why isn’t he in his goddamn bed?!

Johnny’s mother must have responded, but we couldn’t hear what she said. All we heard was a loud smacking sound, and Johnny gasped in panic.

God, I hate that sound, he muttered.

You’re mom’s tough, I reminded him, knowing she’d dealt with worse over the years. We’d both heard most of it.

He’s going to be so pissed at me, Johnny murmured, shaking his head. And he’s going to take it out on her.

It’s okay, I told him. It’ll be okay.

No, it’s not okay, he said, his voice cracking. I should go home and face him. I should just deal with whatever he wants to throw at me. I can’t let him hurt her because of me.

No, I said firmly, wrapping my arms tighter around him. Johnny, please. You can’t go.

The whole situation was a nightmare, and it had just gotten worse. Usually if Johnny’s father was going to lash out at him, he didn’t wait so long. There would be a trigger that would set him off when he first got home, like Johnny forgetting to put the toilet seat down or forgetting to wash a glass he’d put in the sink. His dad would get mad, he’d burst into Johnny’s room, rage and scream and curse, he’d tell Johnny he was worthless, and then he’d make him get up and take care of whatever chore he’d missed. But after that he’d leave him alone. That was when Johnny would sneak over to my house.

This was different. Johnny’s parents had been arguing for a long time, and it was nearing the time of the night when Mr. Evans usually got so angry that he left, or he ran out of steam and simply passed out. But then he was suddenly screaming for Johnny for some unknown reason, and I knew all hell was about to break loose. I was just glad Johnny wasn’t home. With the sounds of rage and destruction we were hearing from inside their trailer, there was no way I would have wanted him to face the terror his father would have unleashed on him, because I knew it would have been ten times worse than anything he’d done in the past. His dad was furious.

Where the fuck are you, Johnny?! he roared. Fucking bastard! Show your face, you fucking coward!

Stay here tonight, I told Johnny, without thinking twice about what I was saying and that my mother would kill me if she knew I had a boy in my room. Please. You can’t go back there when he’s that mad. I won’t let you do it.

I can’t–, Johnny started to say, but then he broke off when we heard his father make something crash to the ground. His mother cried out for him to stop, and then he hit her again.

I saw the internal war Johnny was waging written all over his face. He didn’t want to go home, but his obligation to his mother was pushing him to intervene, to do something. I knew it wouldn’t do any good, and after a few minutes of agonizing internal deliberation, I think he realized the same thing.

Okay, he said resignedly.

Tomorrow, we’ll talk to Mrs. Vine, I told him. We’ll tell her everything that’s been going on. She’ll help you. She’ll make sure you and your mom are safe.

Johnny went stiff again. What? No, we can’t tell her, he said, pulling away from me and shaking his head.

Johnny! his father bellowed again. When I find you, I’m going to kill you, you insufferable bastard!

John, no! his mother cried out. Please.

Shut up, bitch! he growled at her, and then we heard him strike her once more.

She cried out, but then she said something that surprised us both.

Get out of my house! she screamed at him, which led to a flurry of insults and arguments, but then something must have happened because everything went silent.

What the hell is going on? Johnny whispered to me.

I shook my head, my eyes glued to where the lack of sound was coming from. I don’t know.

Then a few seconds later, we heard the front door of the Evans’s trailer open and slam shut. Johnny and I were both breathing heavily, waiting to see what would happen next. Had his father figured out that Johnny was with me? Would he come over to my house to find him?

My heart was pounding as I heard Mr. Evans snarl, Fucking bitch. I’ll kill you and your bastard son.

I let out a sigh of relief when I heard his truck start a few seconds later. He didn’t know where Johnny was. He was leaving. Hopefully he’d go sleep it off somewhere and give Johnny’s mother some peace for the rest of the night. I could hear her moving around their trailer, most likely cleaning up things that had been knocked over, but I was glad to hear she was alright – or as alright as she could be given the circumstances.

Not if I kill you first, Johnny muttered, a surge of confidence having fallen over him as his father had driven off.

I looked over at him in horror, hoping I hadn’t heard him right.

Johnny, no, I told him, pleading with him to rethink what he’d just said. I knew where his mind had gone, and I hated the thought. He had to know he had better options.

It’s the only way, he insisted with a steely calmness in his eyes.

No, it’s not, I said, sitting up straighter so I could look at him head on. It’s not the only way. You can tell someone what’s happening. They’ll make sure your dad never hurts you or your mom again. He can’t keep doing this. You know what he would have done tonight if you’d been home, right?

Yeah, I do, he said tightly, his hands clenching into fists.

I couldn’t stand to see him hurt you, Johnny, I said, my eyes welling up with tears.

When he saw how upset I was, he reached over and hugged me, comforting me when he was the one whose life was in tatters. I was just being emotional over things I couldn’t control, and I hated that I couldn’t keep it together for him.

It’s okay, Kate. I won’t let him hurt me.

He’s a monster, I sobbed. He’s insane, and he’s huge.

He pulled back and smiled at me, smoothing my blond hair back from my forehead. I’m fast. I can outrun him, he said, trying to appease me. Then I can take him by surprise and finally end things.

I couldn’t believe he was saying that – especially because it was delusional. We both knew what would happen if he ran. His father would eventually find him, and Johnny might be able to fight back at first, but he wouldn’t be able to do it for long. His father’s size alone would put him at a disadvantage. What he was saying wasn’t a solution, and we both knew it.

But he was looking at me like he wanted me to agree with him, to tell him I thought it was a good plan, and that I supported him. And any other night I might have given in to the forced smile on his face and tried to fake one of my own. I would have pacified him with a response he’d accept, just so he wouldn’t have to worry about me being upset and we could start to forget about everything that had happened. But I couldn’t do that after everything I’d just heard. It was too much, and I’d finally hit my breaking point.

I shook my head. No, you can’t. That’s not the answer, Johnny. We have to tell someone. This has to stop.

The smile slipped from Johnny’s face. So what will happen if I do that, huh? The police get involved, and they arrest my dad? My mom will never let that happen.

Why not? I demanded, confused by what he was saying.

Because she loves him.

What? I asked, even more confused by that statement.

Johnny sighed. Even though he hits her, and he’s always mean to her, she still loves him. She’d never send him away.

How do you know?

Because I’ve been trying to talk her into reporting him for the past year, and she won’t do it. She always talks about how he was before the war, how it changed him, and how she knows he doesn’t mean the things he says and does. She still sees the good in him after all this time and after all the shit he’s done to her – and to me. He shook his head. It’s sick, but she won’t listen to reason.

So you think killing him is the answer? I demanded.

Johnny sighed. I don’t know what else to do.

I just stared at him, not sure when he’d changed from the scared little boy who’d come to me in tears to a boy filled with rage and fire in his eyes. It made me so sad, and I just wanted all the madness to stop. He was a kid. The last thing he should have been doing was contemplating ways to murder his father.

Johnny, I’m so worried about you, I finally told him, feeling my eyes fill with fresh tears. I lay awake every night worried that something’s going to happen to you. I’m so scared. And when you say things like that, when you threaten to go after your dad, it makes me sick to my stomach. I think about him hurting you – or worse – and I can’t handle it. I don’t even want to think it, but I can’t help it. It’s there, in the back of my mind, all the time, and it makes me so afraid. I’m so terrified of losing you.

I could see in Johnny’s eyes that he was surprised to hear me say that. For a year I’d been his rock, the person he’d come to, who’d tell him that everything would be okay. I hadn’t cried in front of him before, and I hadn’t told him how freaking scared I was all the time, but I couldn’t hold it back any longer – not when he was contemplating murder.

But instead of telling me all the reasons why I was wrong, that he could handle his dad, and that he was stronger than he looked, he pulled me back into his arms, comforting me for the things he should have been upset about, not me. It wasn’t my life. I wasn’t the one living in danger. Johnny lived in a volatile world that could be turned upside down at a moment’s notice,